


Reality Shock

by A_Thieving_Magpie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abduction, Hurt John Watson, John Whump, Kidnapping, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, References to Drugs, what is real? who knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 17:03:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 12,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2858327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Thieving_Magpie/pseuds/A_Thieving_Magpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's reality is shattered in an evening. He discovers that his mind has completely invented Sherlock Holmes and he's been living and working with a hallucination, he can't trust what he sees and doesn't know what is real and what is not. Is Sherlock a figment of John's imagination? Is John mad or is there something darker going on..?<br/>Includes a billion plot twists, kidnap, and a whole bunch of crazy shenanigans</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“How long has this been going on John?” His Therapist leaned forward in her chair._

_Rain spattered against the window outside._

_“I don’t know.” He said quietly._

_It was the truth, he’d lost all sense of time since he’d come back from Afghanistan a year ago...or was it two years? It could have been last month for all he knew._

_“I moved in with Sherlock soon after I got back and...” his voice caught in his throat_

_“No John, you didn’t move in with anyone.”_

_She must have seen the anger in his eyes because she moved back slightly before letting the next bombshell fall._

_“There is no Sherlock Holmes.”_

 

 

* * *

 

A WEEK EARLIER.

“I’m going out, need anything from the shop?”

John rounded the corner from the hall into the kitchen, slipping into his coat as he asked his flatmate the question. Sherlock was perched on a stool by the countertop looking through his microscope.

“Not unless Tesco have started selling human blood...” Sherlock muttered to his experiment

“Well, not since the last time I checked.” John replied “Right, I’ll be off then.”

Sherlock looked up and smiled “I’m going to Bart’s later. Need to run some tests so I won’t be in when you get back.”

“Ok.”

* * *

 

John walked the short distance to the Tesco express down the street with his hands in his pockets and head down against the wind. The weather had been terrible lately; he’d decided to go out to the shop because the downpours of the last three days had settled down at last. It was nearly dark and the sun had sunk below the buildings on the other side of Baker Street, leaving a cold chill in the air.

  
 He got milk, bread, beer and some other groceries – determined that this time they wouldn’t be usurped from the fridge in favour of human remains.  He decided against using the self service checkouts due to previous disagreements with them, instead placing his items on the conveyer belt to go through the a cashier’s desk that was run by a human instead of a machine.

As John got to the front of the queue and his purchases rolled forward to the cashier he found his lower jaw hanging slack.

“Mrs Hudson!?”

“Oh, hello John. How are you today? That will be seven twenty- one please.” His landlady smiled at him...from behind the till....wearing the uniform of the shop with a name badge....as she put his groceries in a carrier bag.

“Wha...what are you doing here?”

Mrs Hudson’s smile dropped and she looked at John with a concerned expression.

“I work here.”

When John was unresponsive she continued,

“You come in every Wednesday and Saturday and buy the same things. You have done for the last year.”

John’s heart felt like it had dropped to his feet.

“No...No I don’t. You’re my landlady. Me and Sherlock...you own 221B Baker Street?” His voice got quieter as the sentence progressed, and he realised there was a queue of people behind him craning their necks to see what the fuss was about.

Mrs Hudson laughed, “Own a flat on Baker Street? Oh I wish! The prices must be hideous. No you’ve got me confused with someone else dear.”

John ran a hand through his hair.

“You don’t know me? You don’t know Sherlock? Is this...is this a joke? You were downstairs when I left! In...In your kitchen making... _tea._ ”

He was almost shouting. He didn’t care about the rubberneckers anymore, something weird was happening.

The security guard behind the desk by the door looked as if he was going to come over, but Mrs Hudson held up a hand to him then turned to John.

“I don’t know anyone called Sherlock...what a silly name. I’m going to ask you not to be so loud. There are other customers waiting, Seven twenty-one please.” Mrs Hudson’s voice was controlled and harsh, so different from the sweet old lady John had come to know.

People in the queue were whispering and muttering, shaking their heads.

John got his wallet out in a daze, handing over a ten pound note. Mrs Hudson put the change in his palm and then saw him off with a curt “Good evening.”

* * *

 

 John walked down the pavement, every footstep feeling heavier than the last. His head was in a mess; this was like some strange, twisted dream. His carrier bag swung from his left hand as he trudged on, trying to make head and tail of what Mrs Hudson had said. None of it made any sense, she was still in Baker Street when he left and he hadn’t been to that shop for nearly a month – he definitely didn’t go there twice a week like she had said.

 His pace quickened as he rushed back to the flat, wanting to find Mrs Hudson pottering around in her downstairs flat. Wanting to prove that what had just happened was a figment of his imagination, a hallucination, anything. It couldn’t be real. Sherlock had probably drugged him in an experiment or something stupid.

John unlocked the door and rushed up the stairs to 221B shouting,

“Sherlock! Sherlock!”

But he wasn’t there. There was just the lounge, looking odd without the outline of Sherlock draped across the sofa in a sulk, pacing up and down by the mirror ranting, or poised on the edge of his chair in thought.

A deep, familiar voice floated to the forefront of John’s mind

_‘I’m going to Bart’s later. Need to run some tests so I won’t be in when you get back...’_

Damn. So he couldn’t consult the consulting detective on the events of the evening. He wouldn’t be back until late – he always crashed in at some ungodly hour when he went to the lab, or stayed there the whole night until Molly called in the morning recommending that John convince him that he needed sleep.

There was still the Mrs Hudson issue to be dealt with, John dumped the carrier bag on the side, rushed down the stairs and knocked on the door of 221A. It was closed, that was unusual.  After not getting a reply he knocked again, rapidly “Mrs Hudson? Mrs Hudson?”

The door opened at last.

 A fat, balding man stood in the doorway with one hand leaning on the doorframe. He was wearing only dirty jeans and glared down at John.

“Whadayu want?” He grunted, his chins wobbling as he talked.

John was taken aback; this was most certainly not Mrs Hudson. Looking past his elephantine frame he saw that the flat that he knew to be decorated with flowers, patterned wallpaper and doilies was full of rubbish. Empty pizza boxes and grimy surfaces were all John could see. The layout was entirely different than John remembered; it was like it wasn’t even the same flat.

“Sorry, um...didn’t mean to disturb you it’s just, do you know a Mrs Hudson? The lady that lives here?”

“I ain’t never heard of a Mrs Hudson. I’ve lived here five years mate, just me. You’ve got the wrong address I can’t help you.”

With that the door swung shut, slamming centimetres away from the tip of John’s nose.                      

 

* * *

 

John walked slowly back up the stairs to his own flat, feeling like his whole world was crumbling around him. His breathing was too fast; he tried to slow it down – doctor’s instinct telling him he was going to have a panic attack if he wasn’t careful.

He collapsed onto the sofa, rubbing his face with his hands. There had to be an explanation. There had to be.

 When he looked up Molly was standing in front of him.

“Molly? What? How did you get in?” He gasped.

It was Molly – but then it wasn’t. She was too pale and staring blankly at the wallpaper behind his head.

“Sherlock doesn’t like my lipstick...makes my mouth too small...Jim wasn’t my boyfriend...I ended it...I made coffee...I don’t count....” She released a torrent of words related to things John had heard before, repeating herself like a robot, talking too fast – like Sherlock would in the middle of one of his deductions.

“Molly, are you okay?” John stood up and made to put a hand on her shoulder, but then she was gone. Vanished. It was as if she’d just dissolved into thin air.

John blinked a few times, trying to get things straight.

He looked dumbly at his hand.

“Molly?” he said tentatively to the empty room

 

* * *

 

“Sherlock I need you to come home, now. I don’t know what the hell is going on. Mrs Hudson isn’t in her flat and Molly just disappeared...please Sherlock...I don’t know what is happening...call me when you get this.”

He terminated the voicemail then leaned back against the wall by the door. It was the third message he’d sent in the space of five minutes, each one sounding more and more desperate. Why wasn’t Sherlock picking up? He became aware that he was sweating, maybe he was ill? Maybe he had a fever and his brain was just playing tricks on him? John pulled off his oatmeal coloured jumper and threw it in a bundle on the floor, the flat suddenly felt boiling hot.

He sank down the wall until he was sitting on the floor and forced himself to take slow breaths, his heart felt like it was going to burst through his chest.

“Oh dear, John...what’s happened John?” It was Mycroft’s voice that rang in John’s ears; the irritating enunciation of every syllable rattled its way through his skull... yet Sherlock’s brother was nowhere to be seen.

“Stop it...Stop it... I know you’re not there Mycroft” John said to his knees as he pressed his forehead against them. He was genuinely terrified now, what was happening to him? Hearing voices that weren’t there was not a good sign and then there was the ghost Molly and the Tesco Mrs Hudson...

Tears began to fill the edges of John’s eyes and he grabbed at his hair trying to stop himself hyperventilating. The rational part of his brain was telling him there had to be some reasonable explanation...there had to be.

 Soon everyone he knew was starting to talk over each other in his head, their chatter filling his brain and he couldn’t stop it. Molly, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, Sherlock, Donovan, Harry. Even Anderson put in an appearance and was shouted down by Sherlock’s voice. He couldn’t tell what they were saying; they were just talking and talking on and on. They got louder and louder, John could barely think, they were painful to listen to. His head felt like it was going to explode.

John ended up rocking backwards and forwards, grasping either side of his head and trying in vain to pull the voices out. Tears streamed down his face,

“Stop it, stop it, stop it, now! ...oh GOD PLEASE! GET OUT!”

                                                                                                   *


	2. Chapter 2

Dr. Selman walked into the room of the latest addition to the corridor she’d been assigned. It had been a tiring week and she was nearly at the end of her eight hour shift. Had it not been for John Watson she would have been able to knock off early. She pulled a pen out of the bun on the back of her head, and then checked the chart at the end of the bed making various ticks and crosses. It was ten am and he was still asleep, probably due to the large quantity of sedative they’d had to give him to stop him insisting that the walls were moving.   
The downstairs neighbour had called 999 after hearing screaming coming from above. When the emergency services had arrived he’d insisted that they weren’t real people, started talking nonsense and tried to fight three police officers. His medical notes said that he’d been diagnosed with PTSD after returning from Afghanistan. He’d have a psychiatric assessment when he woke up, but she left him to sleep for now. 

 

* * *

 

John woke up slowly, first becoming aware of the dull ache in his head and then a nagging sensation that told him that this bed wasn’t his own.

“Ah you’re awake. That’s nice; I was starting to get bored.”

John lifted his head off the pillows and turned to the sound of Sherlock’s voice. He was sitting by the side of the bed on a hard-backed hospital chair, his hands tapping the armrests rhythmically.   
John sat up and surveyed his surroundings, not recalling how he’d got there at all. The last thing he remembered was curling up in a ball on the floor tearing at his own hair, and then the police rushing in asking if someone was being murdered or something.

It was a typical hospital room with the overly-clean smell that John recognised from his own medical training days. The sheets and walls were slightly off white. He looked down and saw a cannula in the crook of his elbow, slowly delivering clear fluid into his veins, there were also sticky electric pads on his chest connecting him to a machine that bleeped every second. Apart from that there was no evidence that he was physically hurt – that was good.

“Sherlock...what the hell happened?”

“Well it appears that you had a panic attack, didn’t know what was what and you were rolling around on the floor screaming for some reason. Maybe you wanted some variation on your normal ‘nights in?’” Sherlock said wryly, steepling his fingers together under his chin.

John didn’t reply. Should he tell Sherlock about the voices and the ghost Molly? The Tesco Mrs Hudson and strange man downstairs? It was all just a part of an insane evening and he wasn’t sure how much of it he’d accurately remembered. He decided that if everything was normal when they got back to the flat he wouldn’t mention it

“I thought you were at Bart’s, how did you know what happened?”

Before Sherlock had the chance to reply Dr. Selman knocked on the door and pushed it open.

“John Watson?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Doctor Selman; I’ll be in charge of your care while you’re here. How are you feeling?”

“I’m alright.”

Sherlock sat silently, studying the Doctor with narrowed eyes. John prayed that he didn’t reveal her life history and darkest secrets while she was in charge of what happened to him. She was pretty and had long auburn hair that was piled at the back of her head in a loose bun.

“What can you remember about how you got here?”  She asked, perching herself on the end of the bed.

“I don’t remember how I got here, I just remember being in my flat and then...” John sighed, “Look I’m honestly fine. I’m wasting your time here, can I go please?”

Dr Selman looked up and raised her eyebrows, her pen poised over the clipboard she’d been making notes on.

“You’re fine are you?” She asked.

“Yes,” he paused and looked around “where am I, what hospital is this?”

She tilted the clipboard so that John could see the logo on the back of it.

He saw the words ‘Hughenden psychiatric institute’ written in fancy blue writing.

“What?” John felt like a brick had just hit him in the stomach, “look there’s been some mistake...I just had a panic attack - things got a bit crazy, but I’m honestly fine...”

“John. They found you rolling on the floor screaming at voices only you could hear, you said that someone called ‘Molly’ had evaporated into thin air...” she flipped a page on her clipboard, “then you tried to attack three police officers yelling that they ‘weren’t real,’ and when they you got here you insisted that the walls were moving and we had no option but to sedate you.”

“Ah.” John gulped. “I didn’t remember that bit.”

 He looked at Sherlock who still – surprisingly, had not interrupted them.

 “Given all of that, I don’t think you’re ‘fine’ John.” She said.

“It’s probably just, I don’t know - stress or something...when can I go home? Sherlock will make sure I’m okay.” John looked at the consulting detective to confirm this.   
Sherlock was sitting with his feet up on the chair, chin on his knees and didn’t even acknowledge that John was speaking to him.

Alarm bells started ringing in Dr Selman’s head at this moment; they said that he lived alone. She stood up from her perch.

 “Who’s Sherlock John?” She asked delicately.

“We live together, he’s a consulting detective and we help the police solve crimes.” A thought popped into his head, “actually that’s probably why I’m not in trouble for attacking those officers, he probably sorted it out with Lestrade...or Mycroft did...”

John hadn’t meant for the words to come out like that and as soon as he spoke he realised how silly it would sound to the doctor. He sighed.

“Look, ask him – Sherlock tell her I’m fine.” He pleaded with his friend. Sherlock simply looked at him with a strange mixture of pity and disgust on his face.

John was taken aback,

“Sherlock? Please...”

The ECG he was connected to was bleeping faster now.

“John, are you talking to Sherlock now?” She asked even though she knew the answer. She could see him getting more and more agitated as he talked to the chair at the side of his bed.

“Yes, what are you blind? He’s sitting right th-” He cut himself off as he realised what was happening.

 

“Oh... oh god no.” He breathed, “Sherlock... stop this!”

“John, there’s no one sitting there.” Dr. Selman said softly.

 

John saw Sherlock lean towards him, there was a nasty smirk on his face that John had never seen before...he looked malevolent. His eyes seemed brighter and his coat seemed darker – everything about him just looked... _wrong_.

 

John felt his heart sink.

“She’s right you know” Sherlock hissed at him “I’m not real; I’m just in your head.”


	3. Chapter 3

“How could I have imagined my entire life for – what, the past year or so?” John stood up and started circling the room “It doesn’t make sense, none of this makes any _sense_!”

He was in a wood panelled room that had become very familiar to him over the past week. It was the only other room he’d been in apart from the bedroom he’d woken up in; apparently it was too much of a risk to let him wander. There were two armchairs, a coffee table, a sofa, a threadbare rug and glass French windows that looked out onto the gardens.

It was meant to be a homely and relaxed environment, but to John it felt like a prison.  
  
He was supposed to meet his therapist every morning at eleven for an hour to help him get through what they called his ‘elaborate fantasies and hallucinations.’ They’d even gone to the trouble of drafting in Ella Thompson, the therapist he’d first seen after coming back from Afghanistan. Apparently he needed a ‘familiar face’ to talk to. The only familiar face John wanted to see was Sherlock’s – and for Sherlock to tell him that this had all been a big mistake, that he’d sorted it out and they could go home. John had missed his first two appointments through pure stubbornness, the first time he’d pretended to be asleep and the second time he had shut himself in the bathroom. The third and fourth days had been slightly more successful – John had conceded to turn up, even if he was fifteen minutes late, half dressed and refused to say anything throughout the hour. The fifth and sixth days they’d got as far as exchanging pleasantries before the session ended in argument as John’s requests to go home were repeatedly denied. It was now the seventh day, a week after he’d arrived and John was angry.

They were giving him drugs that were intended to calm him down and stop him hallucinating, they did nothing but make him sluggish and confused. Things weren’t explained to him at all. John was becoming infuriated by how his requests to know what-the-hell-is-going-on were met by patronising ‘you don’t need to worry, calm down, just concentrate on getting better’ remarks and simpering smiles.

 John still didn’t believe that he was getting the whole story. He was sure that the Sherlock that had been there when he’d woken up was not real and the Molly that had been in his flat wasn’t real... yet he was certain there was a real Sherlock, Molly, Lestrade, Mycroft and all the other characters that he knew in his life out there. There was no way he could have invented everything.

The problem was that he couldn’t find out until he got out of this place and they wouldn’t let him leave.  

John had stopped circling the room and was standing in the corner; Ella was sitting observing him quietly as he ran his fingers along the ridges in the wood panelling.

“So you people are saying that I invented Sherlock, is that right?” He said to the wall.

“Do you think you invented him?” was her reply, trying to get John to talk by adding another question.

John turned from the wall.

“This isn’t about what I think.”

 “You’re in a psychiatric unit John; it’s all about what you think.”

 He laughed drily, “Oh, I’ve missed this.”

John walked away from the wall and sat back down in his armchair.

 “You see, this is why I stopped coming to our appointments the first time. You have to be cryptic, you don’t give me answers – you just question.” He sucked breath through his teeth, “Maybe, you know, what I actually _need_ is to be told the truth!”

“You think we’re lying to you about your illness?” She asked

He rubbed his temples, “I don’t know. I just want an explanation, and no one seems willing to give me one.”

“When you came back from Afghanistan upon your discharge you were sent to me by your superiors who recognised that your wound had not just affected you physically. You had nightmares, didn’t eat-”

“Yes, I know all of that. Can we just get to what’s happening now?” He snapped, then regretted it immediately as he read upside down that she was scribbling ‘still has difficulty talking about the war’ on her notepad.

“What’s happening now?” She looked up at him “Well it’s my belief that you couldn’t cope with your own real life when you returned so your mind created a sort of parallel world that you’ve been living in -”

John gave an empty laugh and raised his eyebrows, “Parallel world? What is this - Doctor who?”

“John, please try and be serious I’m trying to help you.”

He watched her write ‘uses humour to avoid difficult issues’ on her pad and slumped back in his chair muttering “this is ridiculous.”

“What I mean is that you’ve taken people who you know from your life – like Mrs Hudson, the lady who works in the local shop that you visit. You said that she was your landlady?”

John nodded.

“Well all these people exist in some way in your life, but your mind likes something about them and has created a fantasy universe in which you run around London solving crimes.”

“I never said anything about running around London solving crimes.” He felt victorious, “How do you know about that?”

It was only then that John noticed there was a laptop on the coffee table – whatever drug they were giving him it was really slowing him down. Ella picked it up and flipped open the top, after tapping in a few commands she turned it to face John.

“It’s my blog.” He shrugged.

“No, look again.” She passed the laptop over and he settled it on his knee – it was his blog, but then it didn’t look like how he’d remembered it.

“What is this?”

“It’s your account on an online publishing website. You’re quite popular on there – it seems everyone wants to hear about the adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.”

John scrolled down the list of stories that he’d apparently published: the Study in Pink, Blind Banker, Great Game, the smaller cases and general notes about his and Sherlock’s life in Baker Street.... older entries from when he’d just got back from Afghanistan.

“These aren’t stories, this is my life. This is my whole life!”

Ella had watched his expression darken as he read what was on the page and when John looked up from the computer he saw the infuriating expression of pity on her face. Did she not realise what she was doing? Making him doubt everything that he knew for certain?

He placed the laptop back on the coffee table and ran a hand through his hair; could it possibly be that this wasn’t all a big conspiracy to separate him and Sherlock? What if they were right? He was a doctor, but had only a basic knowledge of mental health as it wasn’t where he’d chosen to specialise. Maybe he just couldn’t accept that his real life was mundane and had invented it all – living in the stories that he’d apparently written.

“I want to go outside.” He said.

The room felt like it was closing in on him and he needed fresh air urgently.

Apparently it wasn’t so much of a risk to let him wander now as Ella nodded and gestured towards the French windows. He tugged on the handle, but it was locked. Realising this, Ella came and opened them with keys that seemed to have appeared from nowhere.

John ran, aware only of the green blur between his feet and that Ella was standing in the doorway watching him. He lost his breath quickly – he’d definitely got out of shape since leaving the army, he stood leaning over, hands on his knees and panting.

When he’d caught his breath he looked around and the green blur merged into grass. There was a lake down the hill, but it was fenced off. Didn’t want people drowning themselves then, John thought darkly. The gardens were extensive and the building was just as impressive, a converted stately home judging by the fancy architecture. The sun was shining in his eyes and he raised a hand to his forehead, noticing a bench by some trees a way to his right – next to the high barbed wire fence that spoiled the otherwise idyllic manicured landscape.

He’d sat on the bench for about half an hour, just staring at the sun’s reflection on the lake, when he heard a rustling from the trees behind him. He froze, aware that if he was about to be attacked there wasn’t much he could do in his pyjamas and flimsy plimsolls.

“John, don’t turn around they’re watching you. Just act natural.” It was a voice that made John want to burst into tears, _Sherlock._

He heard the whisper of a silenced pistol and then two thuds coming from a way off.

“Ok, we haven’t got long.” He heard Sherlock moving towards him and span around.

It was him alright, the long dark coat and curly black hair. He looked like he’d been in a fight; there was dried blood around a wound in the side of his head, his hair was a bird’s nest and he moved awkwardly, dragging one leg behind him painfully.

John wanted to hug Sherlock and never let him go through fear of him dissolving into thin air, but he restrained himself - aware of what had happened last time he’d thought he was talking to Sherlock. He grabbed the detective’s skull as soon as he was close enough; ignoring the startled expression on Sherlock’s face as he held his head between his hands and stared intently at Sherlock’s blue eyes trying to figure out if he was real.

After a moment he let him go and allowed tears of relief to silently fall from his eyes.

“Oh god, it really is you.” 


	4. Chapter 4

 The corridors of power were Mycroft’s domain, where he felt most comfortable and at ease. When his umbrella was heard clicking along the marble floors a hush would descend among the government nobodies whom he employed. Civil servants increased their pace as they moved about with box files under their arms and blank faces. No one made eye contact and Mycroft preferred it that way. He could almost feel his power radiating off the walls, taste it in the air, it was tangible. Whitehall was his realm and he was the king.

But today was different. He’d always had a suspicion that his little brother would bring about his downfall; today his inkling was fast becoming reality.

 It had started with a 5 am phone call that had drawn him from his four poster bed and had him rushing into work. Now he was in a particularly unpleasant meeting with Lord Ashbury, a man who made him feel about four feet tall. Quite an achievement, as Mycroft was not a man who was intimidated easily.

Ashbury was a man whom Mycroft would call an ‘Ally,’ an acquaintance, certainly not a friend. Mycroft didn’t have _friends_. The news that he had to bear – in that god awful condescending tone of his – was the news Mycroft had suspected would come but dreaded.

“We’ve lost John Watson.”

* * *

 

_“Watson!” the shout echoed around him, punctuated by a rattle of gunfire._

_John ran, crouching low. The sand of the desert was blowing around his face and he squinted through his goggles to see where his comrades had gone. He spotted a leg disappearing around the side of a wall and ran again, his movements made awkward by the equipment and body armour he was laden with._

_He stopped at the low wall and felt the cold stone under his hand as he peered over the top. An explosion nearby shook the ground and John lost his footing, falling to one knee and propping himself up using his rifle. His ears were ringing as he got up again, running towards the concrete shell of a small building in the direction he’d thought they’d gone._

_He reached the small shack and went inside, panting from the run and pumping with adrenaline. Two of his comrades were in there and they greeted each other with nods. But where were the others?_

_A scream pierced John’s thoughts before he could voice them. Then a crackle from his walkie-talkie “Man down! Man down!”_

_The noises were louder and the gunfire was coming closer._

_“Watson, get down!”_

_“John, what are you doing!?”_

_People were shouting....another crackle of guns...he was running towards a casualty he knew he couldn’t save....blood, so much of it..._

_As he held the man John could feel his life slowly slipping away, he concentrated on keeping up the pressure on the wound that was already too big. A gaping hole in the soldier’s side, with a puddle of blood that John knew was too large for him to live._

_But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try to save him._

_John gritted his teeth._

_He took off his outer layer of clothing, the toughened jacket that went over his chest protector and used it to stem the man’s bleeding. He got it in a tight knot around the area, the khaki fabric soaking up the crimson liquid._

_“Come on...come on...you’re not dying on me mate.”_

_Then John felt an explosion of pain in his left shoulder._

He woke up suddenly, sitting bolt upright, eyes snapping open.

He was covered in a layer of cold sweat that made his pyjamas wet and his hair cling to the back of his goose-pimpled neck. John was breathing hard and ran his sweaty left palm over his face, aware that his right hand was holding on to his opposite shoulder - exactly where his bullet scar was.

 He collapsed back down on the bed, his breath coming in ragged sobs. His head hurt and his heart was pounding. John closed his eyes and repeated ‘It was just a dream, you’re ok’ to himself, the repetition slowly calming him down.

He shuffled onto his side and opened his eyes again, suddenly aware that something seemed odd and sensing another person in the room.  

“John? It’s alright, it’s just me.” Came a voice in the dark

“Who’s there?” He barked, trying in vain to see the outlines of objects through the blackness.

A lamp next to his bed flickered on and John saw his friend’s familiar shape through the sudden bright light that caused spots to swim in his vision. When his eyes adjusted he saw Sherlock sitting in a chair by the side of the double bed, elbows resting on his knees and a flicker of concern on his face.

“Welcome back John.”

John sat up, the silk duvet pooling at his waist. This wasn’t the hospital...nor was it Baker Street.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock read John's confusion in his face instantly. He tried to make a friendly gesture, knowing that was what normal people did when someone was upset. He settled his face in an expression of concern and awkwardly reached out a hand to touch John's arm.

John jerked away from the hand and scrambled for the other side of the bed, his legs catching in the sheets.

"Don't fucking touch me!"

"John?"

He clambered out of bed and tried to make sense of things, looking around disorientated and confused. He didn't recognise the room he was in. There was a bed with lush purple silk sheets and fancy wallpaper, bedside tables and a wardrobe, patterned white and grey wallpaper, white painted floorboards and a mirror. Catching sight of himself in the mirror John was shocked at what he saw, he looked like a ghost. He had bags under his eyes, his hair was dishevelled and he looked way too thin. He became aware that he was shivering too; his muscles were cold and felt like they were seizing up.

Sherlock had stood up, but remained where he was - silently observing John.

John blew out air and turned back to face Sherlock. His eyes were empty and his voice was like gravel when he next addressed the other man.

"You are going to tell me what the  _hell_  is going on. And you're going to explain everything to me  _right now."_

"John I -"

Sherlock paused. Sherlock never paused, yet here they were. John was getting more and more wound up as he watched him try and find the right words.

"John I what? John I might be real, but then I might not be? WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING?" John shouted, pointing a shaking finger at the other man.

"John, you're safe. It's ok."

"NO IT'S NOT! IT'S NOT OKAY SHERLOCK. NOTHING ABOUT ANY OF THIS IS OKAY."

"John let me explain"

"Yeah, that would be nice for a change, wouldn't it? Someone explaining something to me!"

"John-"

"Jeeeesus Sherlock." He paused, turning to face the wall "give me a minute."

"Do you want me to leave?" Sherlock looked genuinely concerned now.

John was hyperventilating and Sherlock noticed his shivering was getting worse. John shook his head in reply, unable to speak through chattering teeth.

"You're cold and your blood sugar's low." He strode over to the wardrobe and started rummaging about in the lower draw.

He threw a bunch of blankets on the bed. "Shock blankets, remember?" he smirked then pointed to the bed "sit." He ordered, producing two chocolate bars from his pockets and throwing them on top of the blankets "and eat. I'll tell you everything."

John was irritated by Sherlock's mother-hen attitude but realised himself that it was what he needed. He was glowering at the other man as he sat cross-legged snuggled in the orange blankets and nibbled at the chocolate – he hadn't realised how hungry he was. Soon he'd finished the second bar and Sherlock had started talking.

"It was Moriarty." Sherlock's expression hardened, "A way to  _burn_  me, by taking you and using you as a pawn in his game. It's no wonder you're confused – when I found you your system was so full of drugs it was a miracle you were still functioning. Of course Mycroft had a plan to get you out once Moriarty's game went too far and it was obvious he had no intention of ever letting you go, but by the time his people got there you had somehow done it yourself...It caused him a lot of annoyance at work. He'd set up a whole scheme to capture Moriarty, then you both went missing. I tracked you and found you wandering about in Southgate. It was a couple of streets away from where Irene keeps this flat, so I brought you here as she owes me a favour. That was two days ago, you weren't making much sense and when I showed up you said I'd helped you escape and that there were now two of me...you were very angry. Then you collapsed and-"

John waved Sherlock into silence, "Wait...wait. I was kidnapped?"

Sherlock looked surprised, a bad sign as not much surprised the detective. "What do you think happened?" he asked.

John was playing with the edge of the blanket, talking to it instead of Sherlock.

"I went to Tesco about a week ago and Mrs Hudson was there and she didn't know us...then I came back to the flat and woke up in hospital where they told me I'd invented my whole life and you weren't real. I believed it for a while. You were there when I woke up in the hospital, but it wasn't really you. Then...I can't really remember..." he wracked his brain for a moment "I was outside after I'd had a session with Ella and you came to help me get out." He looked up at Sherlock "That's it, that's all I can remember."

"You went to Tesco a week ago?"

"Yeah." 

"John...that wasn't real-" he sighed and looked his flatmate in the eye "you've been gone for six months."


	6. Chapter 6

‘I...how.’ John was speechless.

It was then that he noticed how different Sherlock looked; the man’s dark curls were even more wayward than usual and his eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles. He obviously hadn’t slept for a while. Whatever ‘game’ it was that him and Moriarty had played, it had definitely taken its toll on Sherlock.

He tried to think, to get his head around the bombshell that Sherlock had just dropped on him. His head felt so heavy, like every piece of information he took in was going through a grey fog. Then the thought occurred to him,

‘How do I know this is real?’

‘what?’

‘This. Now. Us being here. I thought what happened before was real, but apparently it wasn’t. How do I know that this isn’t just another layer of my brain imagining things? How do I know you’re even here and what you’re saying is true? Or that this...this isn’t a dream and I’m still in that place...?’ he ran a hand through his hair then settled his forehead on his palms.

‘You don’t, I suppose. But to the best of my knowledge, I promise you - this is real.’

They stayed silent for a while. John sat among his blanket pile, head in his hands and eyes closed, and Sherlock in his chair unmoving.

 ‘Ah, Doctor Watson. Nice to have you back with us.’

The new voice in the room had Sherlock snap out of his stupor and jump to his feet, and made John raise his head.

‘Mycroft.’ John acknowledged his flatmate’s brother.

‘How did you get in here?’ Sherlock demanded, no room for pleasantries with Mycroft –as usual.

His brother didn’t bother to reply, just tilted his head and gave Sherlock a withering look.

‘Didn’t take me long to find where you’d got to, I even had a medical team with me in case John wasn’t in the best of states....’ He looked him up and down ‘and by the looks of it he really isn’t.’

‘Well you could have made more of an effort to find him, dear brother, before it got to this.’ Sherlock faced off Mycroft and hissed through his teeth, evidently still irritated that his elder brother had managed to sneak into the room unnoticed by him.

Two of Mycroft’s men had followed him into the room carrying medical bags and stood behind their employer awaiting instruction.

‘I’m fine Mycroft, fine.’ John waved a dismissive hand, trying as hard as he could to think through the fog that was threatening to swallow his consciousness. His eyes felt heavy and he battled to stay awake. ‘I need...I just need to sleep.’

He felt his body slump backwards on the bed, through blurred vision John watched the medics swarm onto him, onto the body that no longer felt like his own. It was eerily calm in his mind; he saw Sherlock and Mycroft argue in slow motion, heard the words ‘cardiac arrest’ float around by his head. Someone was pushing at his chest, but he didn’t mind. Sherlock was coming towards him, shouting his name. The white ceiling turned in circles. Then everything went dark.  


	7. Chapter 7

_They were in a car. From his limited field of vision he could tell he was lying across the back seats, looking at the black ceiling as Sherlock cradled his head. One of the medics from earlier was holding a plastic oxygen mask to his face. There were loud noises, beeping and shouting. Then the darkness returned._

_He was lying on his back again, but the ceiling had changed colour this time. Grey tiles. Everything was still fuzzy...something pinched at the back of his hand. A female voice spoke ‘It’s alright John, just the antibiotics going in now.’ He felt himself relax. His eyes drooped, everything would be fine..._

_The ceiling blurred into focus again, the same grey tiles. Another voice, male this time, something in his frazzled brain liked it. A warm hand touched his. He faded out again._

_Then the nightmares came back. He didn’t remember exact details, but they woke him – sweating and panting, the grey tiles there to reassure him that – no, he wasn’t in Afghanistan. The female voice always came when they happened, floating in, wiping his head and making comforting noises until sleep returned._

When consciousness finally returned to him properly, it was like being hit by a train. John gasped air, filling his lungs until his chest felt like it was going to burst. A bleeping went off by his right ear, the grey tiles were still above him, but now they were clear and detailed – he could see properly at last and looked around to orientate himself. White room, hospital bed, tubes up his nose and in both arms. It was all familiar to the doctor. There was a chair in the corner that he hadn’t noticed at first and when he twisted his head to get a clearer view the figure on it stirred.

‘Sher...lock’ John muttered, not realising how dry his mouth was. How long had he been out?         

‘John!’ Sherlock rushed to his side. He handed him the glass of water that was on the bedside cabinet and John gulped it down hastily.

Before he could say any more a nurse entered the room...followed by Mycroft. She checked him over while Mycroft went through what had happened to him in a matter of fact tone. He’d had a heart attack, brought on as a delayed reaction to whatever drug Moriarty had pumped into him. Mycroft ran through a list of what they’d found in his blood samples, but John wasn’t concentrating, just quietly observing Sherlock. His expression was hard, but there was worry in his eyes. John pushed himself upright, his aching body protesting. He felt weak, and didn’t like it.

‘Your muscles are weak, I’d say you haven’t done any form of exercise for a while, or got the right nutrition.’ The nurse spoke up and John recognised the voice that had come to his aid through the nightmares, ‘although I suppose that is a side effect of being kidnapped by a psychopath...’

‘Thank you Mary, that’s enough’ Mycroft drawled.

Mary threw a cheeky grin at John as she finished fiddling with the bags of fluid attached to his tubes. He instantly decided he liked her, she wasn’t afraid to joke about subjects other people would be cautious about. As she walked out of the door John caught a glimpse of a pair of armed guards outside.

‘Why are they here? You mean...you haven’t found him? Moriarty!?’

‘Not yet.’ Sherlock’s tone was clipped and harsh. ‘But when we do I’m going to kill him, slowly.’ There was venom in his voice.

‘Get in line’ John muttered.

‘Do you want to know what happened?’ Mycroft spoke, ‘during the months you were missing, as I’m informed you have no recollection of events.’

‘I don’t remember anything involving Moriarty...’ He glanced across at Sherlock; his knuckles were white from where he was squeezing the fabric of his coat. Whatever they’d done to him had obviously been bad enough to affect the unemotional Sherlock. That thought churned his stomach. ‘I think I’d rather not know’

‘I thought that might be the case. I’ll leave you two now.’ He checked his pocket watch ‘need to speak to Chan about the Korean elections...’ He smiled thinly and stalked out, back straight and umbrella clicking along the linoleum floor.


	8. Chapter 8

John was in the hospital for two weeks. The nurse, Mary, looked after him, and he came to look forward to her visits. She was pretty and John was attracted to her, feeling his skin tingle when she changed his drips and pillows. They had an instant friendly banter and she often stayed longer than was necessary. Sherlock had refused to leave John for the first couple of days –catching a few hours sleep each night in the chair in the corner. Finally Mycroft had stepped in and got Sherlock a room next door to John’s where he could have his own bed until John was well enough for them to return to the flat. After all – it was an exclusive private hospital, apparently used by the intelligence services, so Mycroft had plenty of influence. Gradually, he’d put on weight and rebuilt muscle through daily physiotherapy and an intravenous drip of extra nutrients. They’d scanned his brain to see if the drugs he’d been given had caused any physical damage, and fortunately he was all-clear on that front. His amnesia of the last six months however, was a mystery. The doctors couldn’t understand any reason for it and put it down to a ‘blocking reaction,’ John was traumatised by the events and so his brain had shut them away. Either that, or he’d had a reaction to one of the drugs that had caused him to hallucinate what he thought had happened and so had blocked out what was actually going on. While he was still not as strong as he was before, he was getting there and felt more positive than he had done in a long while.

Then the memories returned.

At first they came in dreams, flashes of images that had him wake in panic, and then longer blocks of time came back to him during his waking moments always catching him by surprise.

Mary had just come into check on him in the evening the first time it happened, he opened his mouth to greet her and then –

 

_‘Jonny Jonny Jonny boy’_

_The voice felt like a knife attacking his ears. A hand slapped the right side of his face, ‘left handed attacker’ he thought, combined with the Irish accent he knew for certain who it was.  He opened his eyes. The room was bue and small, a TV screen on the wall the only feature. Two thuggish men held him upright by his biceps, squeezing the life out of his arms. He lunged towards the man in front of him, the man with the voice...why did he feel drunk? ‘BASTARD!’ He slurred, but the man only laughed, his thin eyebrows shooting up his forehead. The huge men each side of him pulled him back and he earned a punch in the gut for his trouble. He wheezed._

_‘I like one that fights’ The Irish man drawled. ’It’ll be a better show for Sherlock if his pet is angry.’ He stroked the side of John’s face, John tried to squirm away but Moriarty grabbed his other cheek, squeezing both of them in his hands. ’So pretty’ He sighed ‘Better hope Sherlock plays his cards right, or you won’t be staying that way.’_

_John spat in his face._

_Moriarty seemed to have been expecting it, and calmly pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped his face._

_‘For that, you’ll get an extra shot of the little treat I’ve cooked up for you later.’ He hissed._

_‘Now, to the game!’Moriarty spun round theatrically_

_The TV screen was filled with Sherlock’s face._

That was the last he saw before realising he was back in the hospital room. Someone was screaming, and it took him a few seconds to realise that the noise was being emitted from his own throat. Tears poured down his face. His heart raced and he was shaking.

‘Oh my god.’ His breath came in ragged sobs ‘Oh my god.’

Someone was sat next to him rubbing his back.

‘It’s alright John, try to calm down. It’s just a flashback.’

_It was Mary, he was ok._

He took a minute to regain his composure, controlling his breathing carefully. He wiped his face on the blankets, hiding his face in shame.

‘Sorry.’ He turned to look at her, ‘I just saw...I’m such an idiot.’

‘You are most certainly not. It’s a perfectly normal reaction to an abnormal situation. Don’t be too hard on yourself.’ Her reply reminded John why he liked her; she was sensible and had a realist view of things.

‘Thanks.’

After a while she stood up from his bed.

‘Do you want something to help you sleep? Or do you think you’ll be ok?’

He shook his head.

‘I don’t want to sleep; I don’t want to see...that again. I don’t want to remember.’ He paused ‘and...Can you not tell anyone, about this?’

‘John.’ She hesitated ‘I can’t not. I have to write it on your notes, it’s important in letting us know what’s going on, what with your brain...’

He’d expected as much.

‘Can you not tell Sherlock then?’

He didn’t want to worry Sherlock any more than he had to, the man had obviously been deeply affected by the past six months and he didn’t want to drag things up for him again.

‘Not tell me what?’

Sherlock had appeared in the doorway, between the armed guards that still stood outside. He was evidently just back from a trip to Baker Street, his red cheeks and chapped lips a clue as to the bitter cold outside. He had a bag of John’s clothes he’d gone to collect and he dropped them in the corner of the room.

‘Go on, what is it?’ Sherlock asked.

John’s shoulder’s dropped, there would be no keeping this from the detective.

‘I...started to... I remembered something.’


	9. Chapter 9

They were going to discharge him tomorrow. John felt a surge of relief as Mary told him, accompanied by a twinge of sadness as he realised he wouldn’t get to see her again. It had been two weeks and three days, Mycroft insisted he not be released sooner and Sherlock had strangely agreed. He informed John he’d checked all over their flat and it was perfectly secure – Moriarty would not get anywhere near them again. They’d have extra security courtesy of the British government until Moriarty was found, but John wasn’t holding out much hope on that front. The man was a spider and could be invisible if he chose to be. Hopefully he had bigger fish to fry than Sherlock and left them alone from now on.

As John fell asleep he felt vaguely optimistic, maybe things would turn out alright. He took the sleeping pills that had been left on the side for him and allowed them to pull him into a deep, dreamless sleep.

If John had been awake at three am, he would have heard the two dull thuds that came from outside the door. He’d have seen the same door being pushed open and the masked men rushing towards his bed. He would have felt the needle being pushed into the injection port in his arm. Felt himself being lifted up, carried along the corridor and thrown in the back of a van.

He’d have also seen the grinning face that opened the back doors when the van stopped.

 

* * *

 

 

_‘What you need to understand, John, is that we weren’t finished. You can’t go running off whenever you feel like it...’_

_It was another dream – it had to be. He’d wake up any second to Mary’s soothing voice._

_John scrunched his eyes shut and opened them...why couldn’t he see?_

_Another voice...Sherlock! He sounded like he was coming through speakers; he wasn’t in the room as there was a vague metallic crackle to his speech. He was angry._

_‘Get away from him. This is about you and me, Jim! Not John, he’s been through enough!’_

_‘Oh but Sherlock you’re no fun...he’s the only way I can get to you anymore...its strange isn’t it, how people become so...attached to their pets. I’m getting quite attached to little Johnny.’_

_This certainly didn’t feel like a dream anymore._

_John took stock of his surroundings in an ordered manner. What did he know? He couldn’t see. His eyes were closed and as hard as he tried he couldn’t figure out how to open them, he felt dizzy, but could still feel the injection port taped into his elbow. So the hospital had been real. He was sitting, leaning against a wall. His hands were behind him and felt heavy. All his muscles felt heavy. Shuffling a little he came to realise his wrists were bound. Conclusion, he was captive again. At Moriarty’s mercy. He felt sick._

_‘John?’ Sherlock’s voice spoke. He tried to figure out where it was coming from, turning his head. He couldn’t hold it up and felt his chin hit his chest._

_Moriarty’s voice came closer._

_‘Oh Johnny’s fine...for now. But I won’t stop, Sherlock, until he’s completely mad this time. He’ll get one shot every half hour this time, might kill him in about ten hours though...he doesn’t seem to have a very high tolerance for this. According to his medical notes they think he had a bad reaction last time and forgot everything that happened, which is such a shame as we had such fun together!’_

_‘WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?’ Sherlock was shouting now._

_‘Nothing.’ Moriarty’s voice sent shivers down John’s spine ‘I just want to watch you burn Sherlock.’_

* * *

 

Ten hours, that was all Sherlock had to find John.

There was no case to solve this time, which was how it had been before: for every hour he took to solve the case he was given John would get a dose of the strange poison Moriarty had cooked up. This time John’s life was hanging in the balance.

Sherlock found his hands shaking as the computer screen went black, the image of the small John Watson on the floor behind the grinning Moriarty burned into his retinas.

 


	10. Chapter 10

John’s heart felt like it was beating out of his chest. The dizziness had somewhat subsided. His fight or flight reaction kicked in and he forced himself to calm down: _breathe, just breathe_.

He’d got out of this before – he just had to figure out how to do it again.

John could feel that the effects of whatever drug it was they’d knocked him out with were wearing off. His senses were coming back to him, he smelt the sterile cleanness of the hospital room he recognised from his imagined time at Hughenden. When his eyes finally consented to open he saw the blue room from his memories. The room Moriarty had apparently held him in for six months. The man himself was standing the other side of the room, glaring down at him. John felt bile rise in his throat and vomited on the linoleum floor. He coughed and hacked up vomit, struggling to breath.

 _‘Oh John!’_ Moriarty groaned. ‘But then I suppose I should have expected it…you puked everywhere last time. Dirty boy.’

‘Fuck…off!’ John gasped in between coughs.

‘No…no.’ Moriarty came towards him and crouched by where John sat. ‘You and I are going to teach Sherlock a lesson. You sit still, shut up, and let my men give you the drug. It’s then your chance to try and make your little heart…’ He put his hand on John’s chest, ‘last as long as it can.’

* * *

 

As soon as the video link from Moriarty shut off, Mycroft Holmes stepped out from behind Sherlock’s laptop screen – out of view of the webcam.

‘Excellent acting, dear brother.’ He said. ‘We’ll have the location down to the square inch in less than twenty minutes.’

‘I suppose there are uses to being a ‘drama queen’’ Sherlock replied distractedly.

‘Well. Moriarty’s played into our hands,’ Mycroft drawled, taking the USB drive he’d just used to put a signal tracker into Sherlock’s webcam out of his computer, ‘I for one just hope John can last until we get there.’

‘He’s stronger than you give him credit for.’ Sherlock muttered, closing the lid of his MacBook.

‘You’ve changed.’

‘So have you, what is it… three pounds you’ve put on since we last met?’

Mycroft sniffed and straightened his suit.

‘Two and a half. I’m just warning you, getting attached isn’t a good thing.’

‘Me and John are not _attached_.’ Sherlock growled.

‘If you say so.’ Mycroft checked his Rolex, ‘we need to head off.’


	11. Chapter 11

‘Take the next right!’

‘Ok, firearm safety catches on until we get there lads!’

The Jeep rattled as it took the dirt track at speed. It was part of a convoy, three black Jeeps with canvas backs containing SAS soldiers, four unmarked police cars, several motorcycle outriders and an ambulance. Two convoys of a similar nature were headed toward the building from other directions and a helicopter hovered overhead. The plan was to surround the abandoned hotel quickly, surprise and overwhelm whatever security Moriarty had in place, get John out in one piece and capture the man himself. Mycroft Holmes allowed himself a thin smile in the back of one of the police cars. Moriarty would pay for this.

 

* * *

 

As soon as the video link from Sherlock shut off there was a knock on the steel door. They had come to give John the first dose of poison. Moriarty stood back watching as John struggled to his feet, determined not to go down without a fight.

‘You won’t get away with this Moriarty.’ John slurred, whatever he’d been knocked out with still making him slow.

‘Um…I think I already have Johnny.’ Moriarty’s eyebrows raised as his goons walked into the room. ‘Good luck.’

It ended with John’s cheek pressed against the tiled floor, as he shouted every curse he knew at the men who would end up being his murderers by the end of the day if Moriarty’s plan worked out. There wasn’t a lot that could be done against three men who were at least all a head taller than him and had biceps the size of his thighs, especially as his wrists were still bound and rubbed raw as he struggled.   

He did get a few good kicks in, causing one of the thugs to grunt as he kneed him in the groin, but overall John was left feeling like he’d failed. Perhaps this was the end? He would die in this small blue room, as a pawn in a game between two sociopaths. The prospect was overwhelmingly depressing and John tried to push it from his mind, Sherlock would find him.

* * *

 

Sherlock himself was in the passenger seat of the police car at the head of the convoy speeding towards the abandoned Hotel, his fingers drumming against his knees. Lestrade was driving, as an officer trusted by Mycroft Holmes he was often involved in secret service cases where they required Police backup. He noticed Sherlock’s nervous tick.

‘You alright?’

‘Of course.’

It was an hour in total between the video-link shutting off and the assault team arriving at where Moriarty had holed up. There was a rattle of gunfire as the SAS men who poured out of the back of the Jeeps professionally surrounded the concrete structure, overcoming the security who patrolled the outside. In the chaos no-one but Mycroft Holmes noticed the swishing of the back of Sherlock’s coat as he charged into the building.

‘Alpha 2, keep an eye on little brother will you?’ He spoke into a walkie-talkie, watching the action from the line of trees that surrounded the clearing on which the building stood. Soon the police were blocking entrances, the SAS had formed a defensive circle around the target and a team were headed inside.

Sherlock’s adrenaline was pumping as he ran into the building, bypassing the soldiers who were rounding up Moriarty’s men. He passed a dusty old reception counter, thinking ‘Where would he be?’

He ran down corridors, checking rooms until the thought struck him. Blue walls, tiled floor, what if the Hotel had a swimming pool?

* * *

  
John heard the commotion just after they’d given him the second shot of poison and smiled to himself. They were coming. Moriarty entered the room shortly after the shooting started and looked down on John, who sat leaning against the wall.

‘It’s over for you’ John breathed.

‘No. It’s ok John, this is all part of the plan’ Moriarty smiled.


	12. Chapter 12

It seemed to take Sherlock forever to find out where the Hotel’s pool would have been, his normally high-functioning brain taken over by a base sense of panic. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he took steps down the flight of stairs that led off the lobby. He ran through a maze of corridors, not stopping to catch his breath, when the lights started flickering. Then went out completely.

‘Hello Sherlock.’ Came a sing-song voice out of the darkness.

He span around.

‘Where are you?’ He shouted angrily.

Then came a whisper,

‘I’m everywhere Sherlock. _Everywhere_ ’

Sherlock’s blood was boiling now.

‘For god’s sake this is over! WHERE IS JOHN?’

‘Oooooh anger, that’s new. What happened Sherlock? Did my trick get to you?’

Sherlock was feeling his way against the wall in the pitch darkness, trying to find a door, anything, somewhere he hadn’t looked. John had to be here somewhere.

Then as the lights flickered on again he found the source of Moriarty’s voice. A speaker. He should have expected it.

 

* * *

 

 

‘What kind of a plan involves getting caught? Because that’s what’s going to happen you know’ John piped up from his position, squeezed between two huge men as they dragged him up a staircase.

‘Shut him up will you?’ Moriarty said from where he walked, just in front of his two henchmen and their captive.

‘Where are we going anyway, I mean we’re going up, and I’m guessing the place is surrounded? So unless you’re going to throw yourself off the roof—AAAH FUCK!’ John cried out involuntarily as he earned a punch in the gut. His feet slipped from beneath him and he gave up his attempts to match the pace of the two henchmen, allowing his trainers to catch on the steps as he was dragged up them, hopefully it would slow them down a fraction.

John knew he was just directing more pain towards himself by acting like a cocky little shit, but he wanted to make them angry. If they were angry, they were more likely to make mistakes.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock eventually found the pool, it’s dried out bottom and cracked plaster showing its age, and along from it he found a changing room. Opening the door he recognised the blue room where John had been held. But John wasn’t there. Moriarty must have moved him.

Sherlock cursed and looked around the room for clues. His eye settled on blood spots on the floor, most likely Johns, another reason for the treatment Moriarty would get when Sherlock found him.

He forced himself to focus. Getting emotional now would not help John. Think think _think! Wait._ Sherlock spotted a crack in the wall, perfectly innocuous and almost invisible had anyone else been in his position. He ran his fingers along it then knocked on the wall. The hollow _Thunk_ it gave confirmed his suspicions. Taking a run up Sherlock shoulder-barged the wall, the plasterboard easily giving way against the force. He coughed as the dust settled around him.

Sherlock was in a stairwell, on looking up he saw a concrete staircase that spiralled upwards. The noise from outside had stopped and the sudden quiet that fell allowed Sherlock to register the pounding of his own blood in his ears. Then from above him he heard a familiar voice, _Johns_.

‘Can we stop for a second? I need the toilet.’

Then Moriarty’s voice

‘I told you to shut it.’

Filled with a new purpose Sherlock ran up the stairs, his long legs allowing him to take them three at a time.

 

 

* * *

 

On reaching the top of the stairs, the party of four halted. John found his feet again while Moriarty unlocked the multiple locks on the rusty metal door which led outside.

 


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock eventually reached the door at the top of the stairs and emerged onto the roof of the building. His hair flew into his face as he stepped out onto the concrete roof, it was windy and just beginning to spit with rain.

John stood in the middle of the roof, two large men gripping his arms which were twisted behind his back. Sherlock assessed the situation in an instant, looking John in the eyes and narrowing his brow slightly – asking without words ‘are you ok?’ John gave a barely perceptible nod.

John was Ok for now. Uncomfortable, but Ok. That allowed him to divert his attention on to the man who had caused all of this, James Moriarty. The man himself stood facing Sherlock, between him and John, his arms spread wide in a welcoming gesture. 

‘So you decided to join us Sherlock! I mean, I’d have thought you would have been here sooner, what with Big Brother having all the resources he has…’

‘I think we made good time. Your game is over Moriarty.’

Moriarty moved to the edge of the roof, making a show of looking over the edge. Below on the grass the SAS teams had the building surrounded, guns pointed towards the figures on the roof.

‘Oh dear, as it was just getting interesting! But I suppose, it’s not over yet Sherly,’ He moved closer to Sherlock, circling him like a shark, then whispered ‘because I’ve still got something of yours.’

Sherlock gave him a look of pure venom, then pulled a gun from inside his Belstaff. He pointed it directly at the consulting criminal’s temple and cocked it.

‘Let him go.’

‘Oh really?’ Moriarty’s eyes widened in mock horror, ‘you wouldn’t do that, come on Sherlock, don’t patronise me. We both know I would have Jonny’s pretty little neck snapped by the time you pulled the trigger.’

‘You’ve lost.’ Sherlock tilted the gun slightly. ‘You’re outnumbered, and outgunned.’

Sherlock saw John try and free himself from the grip of the men holding him out of the corner of his eye.

‘No. no. no. no. I’ve won! You see Sherlock, let me explain this to you: John here is bait.’ Moriarty took a step closer to him. ‘He’s the fishing lure, the meat in the bear trap – whatever you’d like to see it as. You are the fish, the bear. He’s your weakness Sherlock. I take him, you follow. It’s quite touching really…’

Sherlock then noticed the thumping of rotor blades overhead, a sound he’d initially thought was just his own heart beating in his ears. He looked up, squinting as he saw the helicopter come into view, descending from the grey clouds.

‘So this is your escape route is it?’ Sherlock shouted above the noise.

‘Yours too!’ Came Moriarty’s shrill voice ‘You are going to come with me. That’s the point of all this, you ran straight into the trap. Oh and John’s coming too – my insurance policy.’

‘What if I say no? You kill him?’

‘Well, yes.’

Sherlock rolled his eyes, trying to mask the panic that was growing inside him.

‘Oh Dull.’ He huffed.

‘Sometimes predictable is the best way, Sherlock. I said it before – you always want things to be clever. When they’re not it throws you.’

The helicopter descended further, its blades slowing as it made it’s landing on the roof.  

 

* * *

 

Down below with the SAS teams, Mycroft Holmes was in command. He sat in the back of one of the Jeeps now, watching the scenes on the roof unfold. He saw Moriarty gesture at the helicopter and heard his conversation with Sherlock through the radio mikes pointed at the roof. He allowed the corners of his mouth to turn up, he was one step ahead of the game.

‘Alpha 2, you have clearance to use force.’ He spoke into his radio. ‘Ugly-Duckling and Foxhound to be retrieved. I want Magpie alive. Eliminate any others.’

 

* * *

 

 

The helicopter’s blades remained slowly turning as the roar of the engine cut out. The door slid open and a masked figure jumped down.

Sherlock could only stand and watch as the two men holding John frogmarched him towards the helicopter, as they got in Sherlock saw his wrists were bound behind him with zip-ties. Moriarty stepped closer to him, smiling infuriatingly, followed by the masked man who had got out of the helicopter.

‘Come on.’

Sherlock silently gave up his gun and allowed Moriarty’s associate to tie his own wrists. He couldn’t risks John’s life, his own was one thing - but John’s was another. Mycroft would be watching, he’d work it out.   

As he stepped up into the chopper Sherlock sensed something was off. He sat on the bench that the masked man pushed him towards, separated from John by one of Moriarty’s thugs.

Then in split second, it was chaos.

Sherlock’s jaw dropped as the two henchmen suddenly slumped to the floor. Round holes in their heads.

Looking up he saw the masked figure from earlier, gun out, pointed directly at them.

Moriarty was standing just in front of where Sherlock and John sat. 

Moriarty reached for the gun, the figure acted, striking him with it hard across the face. The inside of the helicopter seemed to vibrate with the crunching sound. Metal hit bone. He was out before he hit the floor.

John was the first to speak.

‘…the fuck?’

The masked man pulled their balaclava off….to reveal blonde hair…and a face John knew too well. It was not a masked _man_ after all.

‘Mary?’


	14. Chapter 14

Mary smiled at John’s reaction, she’d got quite fond of the soldier while taking care of him in the hospital.

‘Get your jaw off the floor John, never seen a nurse pistol whip someone before?’

Sherlock and John laughed, mostly out of overwhelming relief.

‘You…are a surprise Mary’ John smiled.

In less than a minute Mycroft’s men had reached the roof, surrounding the helicopter and removing the bodies of Moriarty’s henchmen.  Mary took a blade from a pocket and freed John and Sherlock – just as Moriarty himself began to stir.

‘Oh god…’ came a groan from the floor.

With one hand, Sherlock scooped Jim off the floor by his jacket collar and dragged him out of the helicopter. John noticed with satisfaction his cheek was turning a dark crimson colour where he’d been hit, the cheekbone was almost certainly broken.

As soon as he got outside Sherlock grabbed a pair of handcuffs from one of Mycroft’s men and soon had Moriarty secured, throwing the semi-conscious man down on the concrete roof.

The sun had lowered across the trees surrounding the hotel, casting an orange glow on proceedings.

John felt happier than he had in ages as he descended from the helicopter with Mary. He couldn’t help feeling warm inside as he saw how beautiful she looked in the sun, with her hair blowing in the wind, her combat trousers and boots. When would he ever meet a woman like this again? Steeling himself, he got the courage to ask.

‘Listen, I was wondering…if you. Mary. You know, do you get any…free time?’ he coughed awkwardly. ‘Sorry. Do you, um, want to…?’

She looked vaguely surprised, then understood.

‘Friday at 8? I’ll come to yours’ She smiled.

‘Yeah, that’ll be great.’

 

* * *

 

 

Back on the ground, Moriarty was hauled into the back of an unmarked black van by two of Mycroft’s men as John and Mary stood on watching from a distance. Sherlock had followed Moriarty and now stood about four feet back from the van. As Mycroft’s lackeys went to close the doors he held up a hand.

‘Give us a minute.’

The men nodded and withdrew, leaving Sherlock and Moriarty alone.

As Moriarty regained full awareness of his surroundings and the world came into focus he saw the silhouette of Sherlock stood at the end of the chipboard panelled van.

‘Who hit me?’ he asked.

‘Never mind. I told you that you’d lost, and you’ve lost.’

‘Spare the victory speech Sherlock, my head is killing me…’

‘No, LISTEN TO ME’ Sherlock smacked his palm against the side of the van ‘what you did to John...was…Look, I don’t know what Mycroft is going to do to you. I don’t know what hellhole he will throw you in, or if you’ll ever get out. I doubt you will ever see the light of day again, and if I have any say – you won’t. But I’m telling you this now, don’t you ever, _ever_ touch him again.’

‘Are we done?’ Moriarty grunted from the floor.

‘Yes. We’re done.’

Sherlock slammed shut the van doors and tapped on the side, letting the driver know he could go.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :)


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